falling up
by possibilist
Summary: '"We do have the best kids," Rachel says. She shuts off the water and turns to face you. "I blame you for that, you know, how wonderful they are."' Fababies in this current universe. So much fluff. Little fababies, older fababies, lots of ridiculously cute things. Also a bit of kinky sex so, there's that.


[fababies, as promised. so much fluff. little fababies, older fababies, lots of ridiculously cute things. also kinky sex so, there's that.]

...

falling up

.

I'm all of love that could make it today.

—shel siverstein

...

It takes you seven times to agree. Rachel asks sweetly at first, brings adoption brochures to your office at university, sets profiles of potential sperm donors on top of your typewriter on your desk in your apartment.

You made it clear over the years—drunkenly, in the early hours of the morning, once when Rachel dragged you out onto the Maine beach at two am—that there's not a whole lot more you want in the world than to marry her and be a good mom. You made it clear that you have to feel stable, that you need years of reassurance and healing and therapy before you would ever be ready to care for a child. And for a long while—through your twenties, through degrees and shows and that night with the guitar, that morning you had sandwiches in the middle of the park, that time outside the Louvre—when you were young enough and alive enough and entirely happy, your back pressed into beds, dew grass, concrete walls, all physicality and ineffable with Rachel's mouth everywhere.

And that's not really gone away so much as the world has seemed to open even more; you're thirty, you've not had a manic or depressed episode for nine years, you're teaching at Columbia, Rachel's won two Tony's. Rachel brings up children hesitantly because of Beth, because of history, because she knows you do not want to carry them—Rachel's family has no history of mental illness; mood disorders have strong genetic links.

The seventh time she asks, pointedly and resolutely—"I want to carry children and I want to have children with _you _and you're _wonderful _with children and we've talked about making peace with Beth and you have and—Why won't you say yes?"—it's 5:17 am on Sunday.

You stare at the ceiling. You want to fold yourself up and tuck your body into Rachel's as some sort of apology. "I'm scared."

Rachel lets out a puff of air. You don't look at her. She snakes her hand across your stomach and just stills there. "Of course you're scared. It's terrifying."

You bite your bottom lip. Shake your head. "I'm not—I'm scared I won't be good for them."

Rachel crawls completely into your space, not at all gracefully, so that you essentially have to look her in the eyes. "Quinn," she says.

"I know," you say. Tears are inevitable at this point, and Rachel doesn't bother to wipe them away.

"You're a moron," Rachel says, tickling your side with a little half-smile.

You gulp a breath. "What if something bad happens again?"

"You have me," Rachel says. "And Frannie and Robert and your mom and your step-dad and my dads and all of our friends."

"But I'm their _mom_," you say, and the word almost gets trapped in your chest, barely claws its way out.

Rachel leans down closer to your face, grabs your wrists gently and pulls them above your head. "You've been wonderful and bright for years. But if something bad happens, we will deal with together. I'm your wife, and I love you so fucking much, and I'm not going anywhere, children or not."

You take two breaths. You feel the urge pushing at your sternum, much like when you're about to fall asleep, the seconds before you lean into kiss Rachel's lips, the moment before you smell flowers at the market.

Rachel sees it in your face. She grins.

"Okay," you say.

You have we're-going-to-be-moms sex in the living room on the coffee table and the floor, clouds fighting off a proper sunrise, rain tickling against the windows, Rachel's soft, relieved tears, hardwood pressed softly into your back.

.

It isn't at all your fault when Nora falls on the concrete in your new, four bedroom Upper West Side apartment—with room enough for your new son, and a guest bedroom. You're just there to check on the progress, and Nora is nearly four, so she's generally coordinated enough to not need to hold your hand when you're safely indoors. You get mildly distracted by the smell of the concrete in the bedroom combined with the fresh hardwood being laid in the hallway and dusty drywall, and you sort of just close your eyes and try to take note of it for use later in some work.

Nora starts crying, loudly, small lungs' expansion inherited from Rachel—she's sprawled on the floor three feet away from you, soft pink leggings and baby TOMS and stripped navy and white sweater and perpetually tangled brown hair and all. You rush to her side and scoop her up, turn her over and tuck her into your chest. She has a bruise forming forming already along her right cheek and eyebrow, and there's a little drywall dust stuck on her dark eyelashes.

"Baby," you say, smooth her hair. She mumbles nonsense, curled into your chest. You run your hands over the rest of her little body, making sure there are no noticeably broken bones. There's no blood, not even scrapes on her hands.

Her skin is already two or three shades darker than yours, tinged with yellow instead of pink. Sometimes during the middle of a lecture or seminar you'll be randomly struck with just how fantastic that is, pausing whatever poetics or theory you're discussing with what you're sure is a dopey smile and announcing that your daughter looks exactly like your wife.

"Mom," she says, shakily gulping air.

"You're okay." You press her closer to you and nod. "You're okay."

She sniffles, entire body rocking against yours. "I fell."

"I know. It's okay."

She nods slowly a few times.

You decide to forego trying to save your new Plokhov slacks—a random present from Rachel you'd found last night on your bed: "Despite liking you better _not _in pants, I saw them in the window at Barney's and knew you'd just love them"—from concrete dust and move from your crouch onto sitting on the floor. You sit Nora on your lap and slip off your heels, lean her head back against your chest.

"Our bed's going right there." You point to the wide expanse of wall between two floor-to-ceiling windows.

Nora looks up at you, wide-eyed and serious, nods.

You throw a thumb over your shoulder. "Your room is right down the hallway, so if you ever need Mommy or me, we're super close."

"Are you getting a new bed?" she asks.

"Yeah. And it'll be even fluffier."

Nora smiles and sticks out her hand for a high five.

"Will I get a new bed."

"Sure thing, kiddo."

She moves her hands in little waves through the air. "Best," she says.

Rachel joked constantly that Nora somehow inherited your brand of weird, and you usually didn't argue. "Hey, little thing?" you ask.

"Hey, little mom?" she responds.

You laugh. "Why'd you fall?"

She stills immediately, props her elbows on your knees and cradles her chin in her hands.

"You're not in trouble," you say. "Promise promise."

You feel her take a deep breath. "I was just thinking how weird it would be if we were squirrels," she says. "And then I tipped over."

You know not to laugh—you were equally outlandish as a child and were scorned for being so, suppressed that imagination until you went to Yale—and put your hands against the bridge of your nose, push your glasses up a bit to calm down.

"That would be weird, if we were squirrels. It'd probably be weirder if we were hedgehogs," you say.

Nora contemplates this seriously. "Or turtles."

"Turtles would be very weird."

"Mommy would be a silly turtle," she says, starting to giggle.

"She'd sing all kinds of turtle songs, I'm sure."

"Ollie would be the _tiniest _little turtle."

You smile, thinking of your months-old son, the way Nora played with him gently. "He'd be sort of wrinkly too, huh?"

Nora laughs fully, crawling off your lap and standing up, patting your hair and hugging around your neck. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, silly." You pat her little butt playfully, and she squirms away from you with a shriek. "Come here," you say, reaching out your hands. "Help me up. I'm old."

"You _are _old," Nora agrees, tugging as hard as she can on your wrists.

"Hey now," you say, standing with a few pops along your back. You put your heels back on, brush your pants off as best your can. Nora tugs on your hand, and you pick her up and balance her on your hip, groan exaggeratedly. "You're getting too big for this."

You walk out of the constructed apartment, and Nora burrows further into your chest, wrapping her arms around your neck.

.

One of the most amazing things that has ever happened in your life is watching Oliver learn to read at the same time Nora develops a steady grasp of the nature of narrative. Oliver is five when he moves from Rachel patiently sitting at the kitchen table and going over the sounds of letters with him to walking around your apartment with a book in front of his face; his current love seems to be The _Magic Tree House _series, which you've purchased a complete set of from Barnes & Noble happily for him. Nora starts writing elaborate stories, mostly about a character suspiciously like herself being a helpful and entirely successful doctor, and they're impressive in their plot structure and punctuation.

As a parent, watching your children learn _anything _is remarkable—whether it's the proper name for a flavor of ice cream or the fingerings of a C chord on the piano or the name of a dinosaur at the Museum of Natural History; Nora has increasingly become more interested in anatomy, and you've taken her a few times to visit one of your good friends Matthew, a surgeon at NewYork-Presbyterian. As a professor of English and Philosophy, there's something that makes you especially proud and fond of when they take interest in books, watching them find some sort of connection, the opposite of some special loneliness that they're certainly not alone in their human lack of understanding of things that happen in the world.

Rachel finishes production on a show the same weekend finals end for you, and as per tradition, you plan a night at the Palace for just the two of you. You adore having your children; you love your job; you love _Rachel's _job because it makes her so happy to be on stage still, but you both recognize that you're busy, and you do little things to make sure the romantic part of your relationship stays vibrant.

Your nanny, Hannah, is at your apartment promptly at six Friday evening, and you've packed your suitcase and Rachel makes sure the kids' small bit of homework is set out on the counter for Saturday after lunch. Hannah waves you out with smiles and reassurances—she's been with your family for years now—and Nora and Oliver give you hugs before you leave, making 'ewww' noises when you kiss Rachel gently before opening the door.

Rachel all but attacks you once you're checked into your room.

"How can you still look like this after all this time?" she asks.

It's difficult to answer because she now has your earlobe in her mouth, sucking on a pearl earring. "Swimming," you manage to get out before Rachel palms your breast.

All of a sudden, she stops, backs away quickly. You stare at her and try to stop your heaving breast, a jolt of confusion and inexplicable worry prickling the base of your skull.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

Rachel holds up a finger. "Wait one second," she says. She hurries to her purse on the floor. "Also don't move from the wall."

You fight the urge to smile at Rachel's ass, and you fight the urge to move, but Rachel emerges triumphantly, silk scarves in her hands.

She walks back over to you, kisses you gently. "I know we've not done this in a while," she whispers.

"We don't have to," you say, although you're suddenly aching acutely for her _hands, _for being forced not to beg for them.

She shakes her head. "I want to. For you."

"The precursors to such exchanges are always startlingly sweet," you tease.

Rachel takes a deep breath. She takes your hand and puts a small red ball into it, and then clamps your fingers around it.

"Drop it if you need," she says, and you nod seriously.

You swallow and want to moan when she raises herself to her full height, eyes hardening.

She instructs you harshly to get on the bed, instructs you how to take off your clothes, ties a scarf as a gag when you moan, twists your wrists and feet in soft silk tight against the headboard and foot of the bed, strips ridiculously slowly, says all kinds of things to you that make you nearly come by themselves.

Rachel is _never _rough unless it's clearly agreed upon before, and you know this is still a measure to protect you. But every now and then she _fucks _you. Hard. Relentlessly. Leaves red marks all over your skin.

You come three times while Rachel tells you you're a dirty, needy slut, and then she unties your feet and hands, removes the gag from your mouth gently, takes the ball out of your hand.

"I love you so much," she says, and traces the bright marks on your wrists with the smallest frown, before laying down on the bed and tugging you to hold her.

You brush aside her hair, press a kiss to the back of her neck, then a few down her spine before you put an arm over her waist and she squeezes your hand. "Thank you," you say.

She shakes her head and she's quiet for a while. You rub circles with your thumb over her knuckles. "I don't mind doing that for you sometimes, you know."

"Yeah," you say. "I know."

She turns over so that you're facing each other. She thumbs your cheek, then puts her hand through your hair, stilling it against the bottom of your exposed neck. "I still don't understand why you think you need to be punished, though."

She shakes her head when you try to talk.

"I mean, I understand logically, from what you've explained. All the times I've asked." She kisses you so softly you want to cry. "But you're beautiful and good and I don't think I'll ever really completely understand it."

You scoot closer to her, tangle your legs. "I think you just love me too much."

Rachel laughs a little, and you roll your eyes.

"I know you were being serious, and you're right, but sometimes you're awfully full of yourself, Quinn Berry-Fabray."

"You married me." You shrug.

"Idiot," she says, smiling, running a hand down your side, stilling on the scars on your ribs, tapping her fingers there—a habit she's developed. "You know what sounds delicious right now?"

"I mean, I'm in decent shape but I don't know if I'm ready to come again right now, babe," you say.

She shakes her head with a snort. "God, Quinn. What kind of sex god do you think I am?"

You raise your hands in surrender. "I don't know. I just thought—"

"—Champagne and strawberries," she says, then motions to the corner of the room. "Also maybe cookies. I'm hungry."

You kiss her forehead with a laugh, then climb out of bed.

"That ass," Rachel says.

"You're a moron, love," you say.

You wake up late the next morning, completely sore, go to brunch hand in hand. Rachel orders your coffee when you forget, and you mess with her fingers while you look over the menu.

"Nora and Oliver are going to learn how to have sex," Rachel says suddenly while you're taking a sip of coffee.

You swallow too much of the hot liquid so that it burns all the way down your throat. "I don't ever even want to think of that."

She puts an elbow on the table with a concerned frown. "We've been open enough about it that they're not going to feel ashamed of safe sex, right?"

"They're nine and five, Rachel."

"I just—" she bites her lip.

You sigh. "I know. Hey, if anyone wants their children to love their bodies and their partners well and with proper precautions, that'd be me, right?"

You can tell Rachel is stuck somewhere between tears and laughter, and you squeeze her hand with a smile.

"We're raising them to accept love in all its forms, okay? And that's going to translate to being safe and comfortable with sex. We'll be as open as we need to when they're older."

"Yeah?"

"Promise promise."

Rachel nods, smiles at you. "Good."

"Besides, if they're anything like you in bed, you probably don't need to worry about talks of endurance or adventurous positions. We'll probably have to give them tips on learning to be _quiet, _though, because, good lord—"

"_Quinn_," she shushes, blushing profusely as your waiter stops at your table.

You think it's still the sweetest thing when she gets shy, and you're so goddamn in love when she can't look the waiter in the eyes as she stumbles over her order.

.

The first night Nora's home from her Freshman year at Yale for Thanksgiving break, you and Rachel debate trapping she and Oliver in the living room for a game of Monopoly just because you want to see her for longer. She's absolutely beautiful, you think, and she reminds you of Rachel in the best ways—her eyes, the curve of her collarbones, the set of her hips—although she's an inch taller than Rachel, and her hair skims her shoulders in easy curls. She has your affinity for university sweatshirts and glasses, having inherited Hiram's eyesight. You'd never discouraged her from school, and Nora is imaginative and gifted in ways you never could be, focused and so brave. When she shyly asked you to proofread her application essay for Yale, you weren't surprised—Nora's bulldog stuffed animal from childhood is named Handsome Dan—you hugged her with a smile, fighting against the urge to ask her to apply to Columbia just so she'd stay home. When she was accepted you weren't surprised either, and never in your whole life growing up did you dream you would have a daughter that looks startlingly like your wife that would go to your alma mater, but it's by far one of the happiest things you've experienced.

Nora talks animatedly about her classes, her dorm—you don't mention it to Rachel but you know when Nora mentions a certain frat house you want to put your head in your hands, but you do give Nora a leveling glare—but mostly you can tell she's in love with her studies. Currently you can tell she's fascinated with the ethics of biology, and you plan to take her by yourself on a walk around the park over the weekend to completely ramble with her about the practical and theoretical aspects of it.

You're passionately discussing the different coffee shops in New Haven when Rachel laughs at the two of you and shakes her head, goes to answer the door and pay for the pizza from Nora's favorite restaurant.

Rachel puts the box of pizza on the table with plates and napkins.

"Should we make Oliver come out of his room or do you want to bring him pizza?" Rachel asks.

Nora laughs. "I'll bring him some, Mom," she says, standing from her chair and grabbing two plates, loading the first with three slices of pizza and the other with one. She kisses you on the forehead. "Remember your thoughts about JoJo's—I'll be back soon."

Rachel sits down next to you, squeezes your hand with a huge smile. "She seems happy."

"She seems really happy," you agree. You kiss her softly.

"We did a damn good job with that one," she says, and you laugh with a nod.

You discuss waiting for them to come join you, but then Rachel glances at you with a pout.

"Rach, don't you think they're a little too old for us to spy on them?"

"They're our children, Quinn. No."

You arch an eyebrow, but she doesn't flinch. "Come on," she says. "I want to know the real Yale gossip."

You allow Rachel to tug you by the hand down the hallway toward Oliver's room, stopping so that you're not within sight of the half-open door but close enough so you can hear. Rachel sits down on the floor and pulls you with her.

"This feels wrong," you whisper. You used to sit outside of their rooms for hours when they were little, just to hear them make up stories and games and _play_.

"Shhh," Rachel says.

You listen closely, because neither of them seem to be talking, but then you hear Nora say, "You're going to be fine, Ollie."

You hear Oliver sniffle, and you look at Rachel with a pounding heart. Her eyes are wide; she shrugs.

"First loves are always goddamn motherfucking assholes," she says.

Rachel's eyes get big as you fight a moment of laughter.

"Quinn Berry-Fabray," she whispers. "Did you teach our baby to talk like that?"

"Definitely was not me," you say.

Oliver laughs wetly, blows his nose. "Brian was a goddamn motherfucking asshole?"

"Hell yes," Nora says. "And so is Curtis, and that's life and you're so much cuter than him anyhow."

Rachel smiles at you—Oliver had come home late two days ago from rehearsal crying, offering a short, "Curtis broke up with me," before trudging to his room and slamming the door.

For all of the ways Nora reminded you of Rachel, Oliver reminded her in completely different ways. He had her smile and the color of her hair, although he generally kept it short. He was dramatic and loud, with an incredible voice. He loved to write, and he was smart in an entirely other way than Nora—so in tune with emotions and the world, people around him. He had always—and, early one, unknowingly—identified as queer, coming home and telling you and Rachel about crushes on boys as often as girls. There never was really a coming out, it just was Oliver, and they'd not had any problems with it so far—Nora and Oliver frequently discussed the hottest male celebrities with one another, telling Rachel and Quinn not to join the debate because, according to Nora, "despite the ability for aesthetic appreciation, we all know that neither of you fully appreciate one very particular _other _thing."

Rachel nudges you when Oliver starts laughing at Nora. "You're word vomiting again, Nor."

"She learned that from you," Rachel whispers.

"I learned that inevitably from Mom," Nora says. "Blame misses eight thousand doctorates."

You her eyes, but you leans your head on Rachel's shoulder.

"Anyway, Ollie," Nora says, "you're going to go to Tisch or Julliard or come hang out with me in New Haven, or go to university in London, whatever—and there's going to be new people and amazing things and lots of better boys and girls to fall in love with."

"Yeah," Oliver says.

"And, like, I know that doesn't make it hurt less know. But you're going to be fine, and in ten years I'll come to your wedding and make sure to say 'I told you so' as often as possible."

"I have no idea why Yale accepted you," Oliver says, and you hear a playful slap to the arm as Oliver says, "Ow!" and Nora laughs.

"You know why moms named you Oliver, you know," Nora says.

Rachel kisses you on the cheek.

"Because Mom realized she loved Mom outside of Leet Oliver Memorial Hall," Oliver says. "Yeah, yeah."

"I've been there and honestly it's not that impressive a building, so I figure they're telling the truth."

They're quiet for a second. You kiss Rachel's lips as quietly and softly as possible, smiling at how you'd stood in front of that building senior year on the way back to your dorm from dinner, suddenly and completely casually said, "I'm in love with you," in the middle of a light debate over the best sitcoms.

Nora continues, "And I mean, you know all the shit Mom went through, and we haven't gone through any of that shit, so I figure—we're going to find the best people and be really happy with them. And we'll pick better buildings to proclaim love in front of, too."

"And not name our children after famous writers—Nora Ephron," Oliver teases.

"I honestly wish Mom would've been in front of Branford when she confessed such things," Nora says. "You seem like such a Branford. Branford Berry-Fabray. Lovely."

Oliver laughs. "If you call me that I'll tell moms about your tattoo."

Rachel looks at you with almost comically mortified, large eyes. "Did you know about this?"

You shake your head. "I bet you twenty dollars and sex that it's something in French."

Rachel sighs. "She was absolutely perfect."

You smile into Rachel's hair, always comforted by the smell of her shampoo. "She's still perfect, babe."

You laugh when Nora gasps in a perfect imitation of Rachel.

"You wouldn't dare," Nora says.

"Nah," Oliver says. "Mom would throttle you."

"And she _loves _Mom's tattoo, so it's totally a double standard."

You whisper, "You are fond of my tattoo."

Rachel traces along your over your sweater. "I suppose."

Nora asks, "Do you think we should go join them? They seemed to have missed me."

Rachel scrambles to her feet quickly, and you get up as fast as possibly, trying to quietly follow behind as you jog back to the kitchen.

You both sit at the table and grab now-cold pizza and try to act casual as Oliver and Nora come out of his room, joking about Oliver's latest production and Nora's leggings. Oliver is sixteen and already inches taller than Nora, having passed you when he started high school.

You spend the rest of the night telling stories about your last year at Yale, Rachel's first show, when you were at Oxford and Brown, when you first got to Columbia—because Nora and Oliver suspiciously want to know about all the ways you and Rachel really fell in love. Rachel is animated and you usually add asides or times when Rachel can't quite remember.

Nora and Oliver decide to go to bed a few hours later and Nora says, "Goodnight, disgustingly adorable moms."

"We love you too, Nora," Rachel says.

You wrap your arms around Rachel's waist from behind while she's rinsing plates at the sink, and she sighs. "We're asking about Nora's tattoo tomorrow."

You kiss behind her ear. "Babe. It doesn't matter. She's a fantastic kid."

"We do have the best kids," Rachel says. She shuts off the water and turns to face you. "I blame you for that, you know, how wonderful they are."

"Are you kidding? They're so much like you."

Rachel shakes her head, kisses you deeply—traces her tongue along the backs of your top teeth, bites your bottom lip when she backs away. "They talk like you. They love like you, you know. Like, they learned. They got to watch you. With little things."

Rachel loves everyday, but you know she's all for the grand gestures. Your love is quieter, and you think of all of the notes Nora had written you. The art projects and plays they'd written for you over all the years. The way Oliver still sweetly gave you hugs before he went off to school. How he brought you flowers when we came over to your office at Columbia. How Nora Skypes you every Tuesday evening. Even the way Nora carefully folded your clothes if she was doing laundry and your clothes were in the dryer.

"They're the coolest humans, aren't they?"

Rachel nods. "The most awesome things."

You check on them before you go to bed: Oliver first, who waves from behind his computer screen and says, "Love you Moms," with a smile, then Nora, who is curled in a small ball in her bed—a copy of how you usually slept, not sprawled like Rachel. She's sound asleep, in one of your old Yale t-shirts, tattered and fraying. She looks like Rachel, and you know there are so many parts of her that look like you. Rachel leans into your side and rubs the small of your back, and you watch her together for a while; you're remarkably peaceful with your _baby _home again. Nora's eyelashes are long enough to brush her cheeks, and she looks remarkably younger, smaller, lovelier in the soft light of the city muted through her wispy curtains.


End file.
